


These Fallen Things

by whichstiel



Series: Season 14 Codas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, M/M, Spn 14x01, Stranger in a Strange Land, demon dean flashback, episode coda, musings on hope and humanity, supernatural episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 04:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16277711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: An episode coda for season 14, episode 1.Dean and Castiel reflect on hope and humanity in the shadow of Michael’s possession.





	These Fallen Things

They were whispering about him at the other end of the bar. Dean sipped his whiskey, savoring the burn against his tongue, and eavesdropped over the hum of twanging guitar playing on the bar’s speakers.

“How long do we have to stick around this dump of a town? I haven't killed anything in at least a week.”

The second demon’s voice was lower, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “Until Crowley says it’s time to move on.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Brent and Laura. They had been flexing their muscles all over town, painting a big target on the motley King’s court staying at the motel attached to the bar. Crowley really ought to do something about them. Kill ‘em, or send them away. 

Brent snorted. “You mean, until _Winchester_ says it’s time to move on. I’ll admit, I was on board with the whole Hell’s Knight thing when I thought we’d be rampaging the fucking countryside with, you know biblical flaming fucking swords. But so far we’ve just watched him and Crowley make…make fucking cow eyes at each other.”

Laura grumbled a disgusted reply.

“Did you know,” Brent lowered his voice and glanced around the bar. Dean prevented himself from reacting, staring at his whiskey glass like it was the only object that mattered in the world. “They set up another date? A _date_.” He spat out the word like it was a curse. 

“No,” Laura sounded scandalized. “That’s so…so…civilized. I can’t believe we’re sticking around town so Winchester can have a…a _fivesome_.” She called across the room to the bartender for another drink and after she took a long swallow of beer she said, “Knight of Hell, my ass.”

“Fucking weak.”

Dean took another sip of whiskey. He let the glass linger on his lips, enjoying the fire against his skin. Dean heard a lot of imprecations against his character lately. That was a consequence of falling in with demons. If he acted against every insult he'd have perpetually bloody knuckles and a whole hell of a lot less fun. 

The truth was, they weren’t sticking around for the triplets, though they _were_ very fun. Instead, he and Crowley were sticking around because the bar’s nice. It had a good sound system and decent booze, and there was plenty of tail to chase in this transitory place. Crowley had suggested moving on, but Dean had stopped him. “When was the last time you ever had a chance to relax, man?” And Crowley had taken one good look at him and backed right down. _That’s true. Never. Might as well._

It was a good situation, and Dean didn’t intend to screw it up any more than he had to. He’d just sit quietly, finish his drink, and maybe bamboozle the bachelorette party camped out in the corner out of some hard earned money. Or sleep with the bride-to-be. The night was young.

But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Of course there was more.

An elbow bumped into Dean a little while later, deliberate and sharp against his back. “Oops,” Brent said at his ear. “Sorry. ”

Dean turned in his seat slowly and let his gaze flick along Brent fleetingly, like he was a fly. He turned away again, only Brent cleared his throat and said, “How does it feel?”

Dean swiveled to Brent and raised his brows consideringly. “Excuse me?” 

“How does it feel,” Brent said with a sneer, “to suck so miserably at being a demon? I swear to god, you’re the most white bread demon I ever—”

Dean smiled lazily and grabbed the demon’s arm. His fingers cut into Brent hard enough to elicit a wince and Dean’s smile grew into a grin. “You got a problem with me, Brent?” Fear flicked across Brent’s expression, but it quickly turned into disgust. Dean let him pluck his fingers from his arm and drop his hand away. “You’re drunk. Which is a real fucking accomplishment for a demon, so kudos to you.” Dean lifted his glass in a mock salute.

“Yeah? Well you’re a shitty demon. Shitty and boring and…” A knowing expression crossed his face. “Bet it was all the angel dick you were getting.” He thrust his hips once and hissed, “Oh yeah, that sweet fire of the lord! Diluting everything that should make you great. Making you a waste of…of everyone’s time. You’re not a _real_ demon.”

The Mark hissed against Dean’s forearm. It bubbled like liquor in his blood and he found himself baring his teeth. He let go of his glass. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he warned. 

Brent snorted. “Please, everyone knows. Crowley’s talked about it. Hell, everybody talks about it. I don’t know why we bother when it’s obvious you’ve been compro— _urk_ ”

A moment later, Dean pulled the knife out of the demon’s ribs, winking as the blade scraped against bone. He swiped Brent’s blood casually against his a paper bar napkin and tucked it back in the sheath hidden in his pocket. “Talk about Cas again,” he said pleasantly, balling up the bloodied paper and dropping it next to his glass on the bar top, “and I’ll turn you inside out.”

He fucking had limits, after all.

* * * 

The thing about Michael, Dean learned quickly, was that he was not a people person. _Er…_ angel. And Dean didn’t mean that the archangel was unfriendly, although he was without a doubt a complete dick. No, it was that Michael simply didn’t… _get_ people. He didn’t understand their motivations, or their complexities. He would ask Dean, early on, about the proper things to say to a human to sway them to his side. Like there was a manual every human was born with, and he need only ask for a copy. He’d asked about the angel Anael as though he and Dean were two colleagues, still working side by side. He’d asked before he’d tortured. Before he’d taken.

He’d asked because Michael truly was baffled. That fundamental lack of understanding would be how they would win, Dean often thought. He stewed over the problem in the prison Michael had built for him in his own mind. 

“You think in black and white,” he muttered as he leaned over the lock in his hands. By concentrating very hard, he was able to manifest a version of the lock Michael placed over his latest trap for Dean. With a physical representation in hand, it felt easier now to pick at it and worry at it like a mouse nibbling away at a wall. 

Michael had ranted to him early on about “fallen things,” which Dean had come to realize encompassed all of creation - humans, demons, surviving angels - you name it. For Michael, there was a high state and a low state, and nothing in between. “You don’t understand want or need or…or love. Just words.” He pushed the pin in and heard a click. “Just weapons.” 

Encouraged, he kept on with it. “We have dreams. Desires. Hopes. We care about each other. We want fucking peace, you asshole.” Another tumbler clicked and Dean smiled. “And I’m not gonna let you ruin that.”

He’d thought for a while that Michael would try to batter down the walls of Heaven and take dominion of the place. The archangel enjoyed worship, thrived on it even. Michael had been bitterly disappointed by the impressions of angels in Dean’s mind, however. He’d been even more disappointed by his meeting with Anael, the supposed rebel fighting against Heaven.

If there was any rebel against Heaven slumming it on Earth, it was Cas, though. But Dean kept Castiel wrapped up firmly in his mind. Ever since Michael had taken over, pushed Dean down, Dean had dragged as much as he could from his memories of his loved ones down with him and pushed it into the dark corners of his mind. 

Dean chewed on his lip as he worked at the lock. There were a lot of dark corners in his mind. Corners filled with pain that kept Michael at bay, as effective as insect repellant. It was almost laughably easy to bury his heart away from Michael.

Dean remembered the last time he saw Cas, after Michael had entered his body. He’d been filled with power, with fire so heady it had taken all of his control to hold fast to the reigns and not slip away like a paper boat in a flood. 

Castiel had stared at him, jaw clenched, and anguish painted across the lines of his face. Dean had noticed that first and then he’d seen him through Michael’s eyes. Power streamed off of Castiel like holy fire, constant and blue-hot. His wings hung from his shoulders in tattered pieces, mere fragments of what they once were before Metatron’s spell shredded them. 

Dean had never seen any sight more beautiful. Castiel - glowing with his own glory. Castiel - broken once, twice, over and over again. Broken, but never giving up. Never. And he still looked at Dean like he believed in him.

Dean remembered how he had failed in Hell, so many years ago. How he’d cracked under torture, given up. Castiel had saved him then and the memory of him would save him now. 

He would push back against the walls, the locks, the pain that burned him with every second of contact with Michael’s grace. Dean worked at the lock.

He vowed to fight, because he couldn’t stand the idea of backing down again. Of giving up. And most of all, he couldn’t stand the thought of letting Castiel down. Again. 

The thing was, he felt like Cas was with him. Not just the memory of him, but _him_. There, and steady beside him. _Inside_ him. Dean shook his head. It didn’t make sense, but he was tired of trying to sort things into real and fake in his mind, of all places. He wrapped himself around Cas, or Cas wrapped himself around Dean.

The lock clicked open and Dean gathered himself, pulled his heart around him like armor. He picked up the lock and watched it grow long and sharp in his hand. “Heeeeeere’s Johnny,” Dean shouted and felt Michael flinch like a tiger in the wild at the call of something wilder.

Leaping from his cell, Dean began to slice.

* * *

Castiel cleaned the blood from his face grimly with a sandpaper textured washrag. He wished somebody had told him just how rough he looked before he’d gone to speak to Jack. Telling Jack he would be okay without his grace to back him up would have been a shade better delivered if Castiel hadn’t looked like he’d just received the beating of a lifetime. 

He sighed and scrubbed the blood from his skin, rinsing the rag under running water and watching the red blood swirl in the basin, then down the drain. 

Even as a human, he’d never felt more mortal. He supposed that happened to everyone. The more people you cared about, the more you realized how tenuous everyone’s hold on life and happiness was. It was hard to keep up, some days, without feeling hopelessness crystalizing into something sharp and impenetrable.

The cut in his lip was beginning to heal, but Castiel still hissed involuntarily as he scrubbed at it. It stung. 

The cut stung and Castiel was…he was…

Castiel pressed his hands to the sides of the sink and leaned against it for a moment. The porcelain was very cold. He watched the bloody water droplets run towards the drain. He stood there for a breath. Two. Three. Then he lifted his head again, resolutely.

Dean was out there. 

Castiel finished washing his face. He wet one hand and combed it through his hair, pushing out the blood and laying it flat again. Dean was out there, burning within Michael. He would feel it if Dean were gone, wouldn’t he? 

He would.

In his millennia of life, Castiel had watched many things die, and many more things cease to be entirely. He should be inured to it. But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t let himself become that way. He’d keep the faith that Dean survived, that he _cared_ to survive. 

Castiel finished brushing his hand through his hair and let his grace shudder through his shattered wings, flicking the last of the fight’s grime from him. He was a fallen thing, more human than angel these days. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe, that human side of him helped him to believe, when everything seemed stacked against him. 

He was fallen, but he was not low.

In the end, Castiel believed Dean would be saved.

 _And so_ , he thought, flicking off the light in his room and heading back towards the library, _he will_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, it’s season 14! Thanks for reading, everyone. Let’s do this :D
> 
> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
